


Out of the Dark

by samidha



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bobby Singer's Panic Room, Episode Related, Episode: s05e16 Dark Side of the Moon, Gen, Oh Sam, One Shot, POV Sam Winchester, Short One Shot, What Was I Thinking?, When Your Brain is a Scary Place
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-21
Updated: 2011-06-21
Packaged: 2018-12-11 06:50:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11709093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samidha/pseuds/samidha
Summary: Sam finds his way back into the panic room of his own choosing.





	Out of the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Blerg. I have heavy, heavy feels about the panic room, all. It may be evidenced by some of my other fic. So I found this (and some other ones but specifically this) and it makes me _really really really_ , I mean really uncomfortable to read now, but I noticed that this is a fic people have looked for and passed around a bit, so even though I was thinking of maybe leaving this off in the great reposting adventure, I will refrain. *vaguely uncomfortable about own brain* Here we go *rips bandaid off*

It doesn’t matter how many times Dean says it (and he does, so many times that Sam loses count), the words cut him to the quick.

 _You’re a monster_. He doesn’t have to say them anymore. The words ricochet around in Sam’s head endlessly. _That’s what I think of you, you goddamn pathetic piece of shit. You wanted to know, and now you do. Just remember you wanted to know._

Dean has been standing there for what feels like hours, but it can’t really be that long, can it?

Then again, maybe it can. Sam stopped protesting long ago. That has to mean something about the time that’s passed.

”Dean, I just--”

Dean steps further into Sam’s space, his features hard and his eyes bright with anger. ”Don’t talk to me like you’re my brother. Don’t talk to me like you know me. Not after all this,” he spits. ”You’re a freak, and you always have been. You always will be. Always.”

Sam’s hands go up around his ears, fingers scraping through his hair. ”Don’t. Don’t say that.” He won’t say please, he won’t beg as hard as that.

He thought he was done talking, but apparently even now he can’t hold back words over the ache in his chest.

He wants this not to be his brother, his brother who doesn’t want him. He tries to remind himself that the things he saw last time he was here couldn’t have happened. His mother couldn’t have come and spoken to him.

But his brother is right here, wound tight with danger in every line of his body and hatred in his eyes, and if it’s a hallucination, it’s perfectly constructed.

 _Amulet. He’s not wearing the amulet_ , Sam thinks, thinks that means something, like maybe this is the proof he needs, but then he remembers--

Sam remembers shots ringing out, knowing he was dead. He knows the hell that was heaven--at least for Dean--and then, in one solid movement, Dean dropping the amulet into the trash, useless.

Sam had rescued it, of course, but he hadn’t found a way to give it back to Dean, not without mortification and the possibility of a second rejection just as bad as the first, if not worse.

Who was he kidding? This was worse than anything. Compared to this, Dean dumping the amulet back in the trash would be like a summer stroll.

He wishes he even had a chance to become desensitized to this line of thought in his brother, but somehow, somehow it always came back to this, this his worst fear since he had learned of the blood from Azazel. The fear that he really was the ticking time bomb his father had warned Dean about.

The fear that he was undeniably _other_ than his brother.

Ever since Azazel put the thought in his head, it had dominated his dreams, filling him with disgust and wonder, visions of blood running over, tangy and thick.

”You think I don’t know what you want?” Dean asks him, and he swears the temperature drops five degrees in an instant. He forces his eyes down and away from Dean, away from the dark network of veins under his skin, and everything that they hold.

He’s been pretty sure that Dean doesn’t know, couldn’t even suspect. He’s been so careful. But here, where there’s nothing but memories of the blood, he hasn’t been pretending, has he?

He closes his eyes to escape the accusing look on Dean’s face without counting on exactly what his mind’s eye can supply instead.

The blood. Of course the blood.

He will never make it out of here. This is never going to end.

One tear and then another and another sting his eyes and force their way out and down his cheeks. But he keeps his eyes away from Dean, and he doesn’t move any closer to him, doesn’t take what he could, what he’s strong enough to claim as his own if he--

But he doesn’t. He doesn’t. He won’t.

Dean’s voice reaches his ears again. ”Sammy? Jesus, Sam, I’ve been calling you. What the hell are you doing down here?” Softer. If he didn’t know any better... he would hear worry lacing the words, but he doesn’t dare.

He opens his eyes, already sore and probably red from tears or exertion (last time, he burst a bunch of capillaries, went around with bloodshot eyes for days). He looks into Dean’s eyes, Dean who looks him over and turns just the right shade of pale, pale green.

”Dean, I didn’t mean to,” he says, shivering and waiting for the disgust to surface on Dean’s face again. He’s playing the part of concerned older brother, but any second now he could turn. Sam’s seen it enough times to know.

”Didn’t mean to what, Sammy?” Dean asks, the words soft in the air between them, Dean still pale and waiting for-- something. Sam settles into his confusion, even looking around for the other Dean. But there’s only one, wearing the same clothes and no amulet, which sends a fresh wave of fear through him.

”Stop acting like you care. It’s been hours and all you’ve been telling me--” Sam says, fast and frantic.

”Sammy, I just went on a supply run. I’ve been gone forty-five minutes, tops. Why did you come down here?”

”I just-- I, um.”

”Did something happen?”

 _Yes_ , he wants to say, _you’ve been laying into me all this time. You think I’m a freak and you’ll never wear my amulet again_. ”I don’t know. I don’t know. Sort of.”

”And?”

There’s something in Dean’s voice that makes him jumpy. It’s the voice Dean uses on civillians in the middle of a case--too sharp, and Dean looks at him like he’s trying to get at some kind of secret, like he’s hiding something and Dean’s going to get to the bottom of it. His brother’s gaze is hard again, penetrating, and he just wants to get out from under it, but staying silent probably isn’t going to be the way to do it.

So what does he say? _Yeah, Dean, I’ve been craving blood again. Your blood. Is it normal or is it demonic after all this time? Is it--?_

”I just-- I didn’t mean to. I just...”

”Just what?”

He hangs his head. He hates the way Dean looks at him, the sharpness in his voice and in his gaze. He can’t take much more of it. 

He’s in the worst place he’s been in months, or maybe years. He’s always dreaded this happening, ever since Dean came back, the question tumbling over and over and over in his mind as he looks at his brother: Human or demonic?

He doesn’t smell any sulfur, never has, but that’s hit and miss anyway, always has been. And Dean is _his_ blood; somehow that counts for something in Sam’s head. And he just wants to know. He wants to know.

”I think... you should probably stay away from me, that’s all,” he tries.

”Why, Sammy?” Dean’s voice goes soft. 

For once in his life, Sam clings to his nickname, proof of happier times, or maybe just easier ones, really.

”I’ve been wanting blood again. And I-- um...” He forces himself to stop. ”That’s it. I’ve been wanting blood again and I came down here. And it-- It went really bad, Dean.”

Dean blows out a breath and nods. ”Okay.”

 _No, it isn’t_. ”Okay?”

”So we’ll deal with it, but not in here, not right now,” Dean says, and his voice is firm. He puts an arm around Sam’s shoulders and Sam shivers, leans back into his brother’s touch.

”I don’t know if we can,” Sam whispers.

”But I do.”

And suddenly, he realizes, this will have to be enough.

He lets out a shaky breath and wipes at his tired, sore eyes, and when Dean pushes at his shoulders he stands up. Dean’s hand is at the small of his back and his brother lets him lean into the touch, doesn’t pull away. For just this moment, Sam lets himself trust and walks with Dean out of the room.


End file.
